Seeds of the Pomegranate
by Italian Empress 1985
Summary: His power was taken by the Maker, his beauty diseased inside the shell of an archdemon, but through his madness, the Old God, Urthemiel found a chance at vengeance and new life. And woe betide the Grey Warden that captured his immense and awful interest.
1. Burning Hope

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So, welcome to the first of my Fate and Forbearance related drabbles, though I think some of them might turn out to be long enough to be short stories instead of just drabbles. Of course you can read these without having read the main story, and I think they'll still make sense, but I also think readers of Fate and Forbearance will read these with a knowing little smile (or grimace depending on the content) and that it adds something to the story. Or I hope it does._

_I was watching a longer gameplay trailer for Skyrim *drool* and was in a very Dragon-y mood, and we haven't seen Urthemiel for a while, and I don't think there actually are any other stories that use Urthemiel's rebirth in the way that Fate and Forbearance will, so I thought it'd be fun to get into F&F's Urthemiel and maybe understand him a bit more outside the story. I think especially these first two drabbles lend a bit of interweaving with the interaction between Gwyneth/Morgreth that we've seen so far. The title comes from a bit of Hades/Persephone Greek myth about the God of the Dead having his intended eat pomegranate seeds so she'd have to stay in the Underworld with him, not that the situation is the same as Urthemiel and Cousland here, but rather the same idea of a dark god yearning for a beautiful girl full of the life that he covets but thought he could never have again._

_For those that haven't read Fate and Forbearance, I use a lot of game/story canon, but not all of it, I'm fond of taking my own ideas and blending them with the canon, so some of this ties into the official Chantry definitions of Old Gods and the fall of the Golden City, and some of it doesn't. Also, Urthemiel has two names, Urthemiel being the one the Tevinters gave him, and Morgreth that of his original name and he uses them both. This is also written in a different style than Fate and Forbearance and has a POV sort of feel I think, without being first person, so Urthemiel is always capitalizing 'Him' because he's a god, and not capitalizing the Maker as 'Him' because he hates him._

_I'm going to leave this one open for more Morgreth/Gwyneth drabbles and will probably do the same with any of the others until Fate and Forbearance itself is finished. So 'story alert' away if you like this, because there will likely be more. _

_Warning: __This is rated 'M' in case of any future NSFW content, which may crop up. Also this drabble makes a mention of deity incest, not graphically portrayed however, but a warning just in case._

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><p><strong>Seeds of the Pomegranate<strong>

_What is it to be an Old God, full of power, to suddenly lose it, and to find hope for it again in a tainted Grey Warden?_

* * *

><p><strong>Burning Hope<strong>

**H**e looks out at His children as they bow and pray for Him and His name. "Great Urthemiel, speak unto us so that we may hear your song and find our salvation within!"

He hears not these entreaties, pouting as would a spoiled child that Uvolla, His sister, would accuse Him of, but She has been gone for some time, and yet Morgreth thinks that She is out there still, thinking of ways to prove Her power is greater than any of their siblings. Uvolla Lusacan and Morgreth Urthemiel, always thought of as the youngest of the Old Ones, and yet the only two that had ever had enough courage to surge their kind forward.

This . . . _new one _. . . this usurper essence who lets the young barbarians speak unto him and call him 'Maker', he might accuse the _true_ gods of acting as children as well, but Urthemiel would hear that not, and thinks on this _false _god as more the child, coming along and thinking his new power is deserved. It is not, and yet this . . . _Maker_, he takes with him a bride. Urthemiel hears these whispers and they vex Him, they vex Him greatly.

For so long Morgreth has tried to find the perfect bride, to find a way to lengthen His own life, His own seed, because he can feel the greatness that is His and that of His brethren fading away. Once, longer ago than even Urthemiel can recall, there were _thousands_ of the Old Ones, the very essence of power itself, and now only a handful remain. They used to know how to perpetuate their own blood, but the knowledge to birth new Great Children has been lost.

The God of Beauty, these mages and men that title themselves 'imperial' do so call Him, and Urthemiel wants to create the beauty of new life, a son of His own, to grow into power and return Urthemiel and their kind back into the fold of eternal beings. He and Uvolla once tried to mate with each other, but nothing came of that besides more of the old self hatreds that were hidden under their glowing skin. Each of them possessing the desire for progeny without knowing the means to attain such a thing.

Seeking then, the mortal kind, women who could birth almost a litter of squalling children if given enough years, Morgreth thought to give them His own blood, to change them so their mortal ability to create life within would be given the endurance of a God so that finally He might have a son. One after another, the mortal women He sought to grow His seed within, fell into the great flames He conjured to test their ability to carry His progeny. For any woman that would birth a God of the Great Dragon's Blood, must not be burnt from the inside out by the power of what she carried in her womb, but nothing was enough, no rituals of the feeding of His blood, no attempts at mating, had ever worked and once His prospective brides entered the pyre, they were turned to ash, the screams of their dying fragile bodies heard in kind with Urthemiel's great angry roaring.

One of His arch magi, those that had risen to His favor was calling to Him now, telling their god that they were ready. Today they took the Golden City for their own, the 'Maker' be damned into the fiery pits of the Great Abyss were he would burn along with all of Morgreth's lost hopes. Today there would be a reckoning and nothing could stop the burning anger the Old God felt. He would light the Maker's world aflame. In that the usurper would know _His_ pain, for Urthemiel may never have children, but the Maker would not have them either, no bride, no golden palace, no power . . . nothing.

For the first time in a while, Morgreth Urthemiel smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Dark Andraste<strong>

**S**he was dancing when first He truly looked at her, there had been glimpses before, but everything was hectic in Morgreth's infected mind.

He knew His own illness and that was the most maddening of anything, all that He had sought to do brought nearly to ruin, but He was alive, inside a twisted shell. His once beautiful children turned into monstrosities and His rage turning His _own _beauty into the hideous creature the mortals would call an archdemon. Such was this rage, this hate, that Urthemiel could see little else. The biting flies that were the mortals, and the wasps that were the Grey Wardens, stealing the blood of Urthemiel's children, the devout worshippers that had been the only sort of progeny he would ever have, for their own so that they could kill them, so that they could kill _His own siblings_. Dumat, Zazikel, Toth and Andoral . . . His brothers, _all dead, killed by Wardens_! He would kill them _all_, turn their precious _Maker_ blessed world into ash for such an outrage! Beyond those thoughts there was nothing . . . until _her_.

She was one of _them_, had partaken of tainted blood and passed their short sighted ritual. Urthemiel snorted, dragon's nostrils flaring wide as He recalled what it had looked like when He'd gotten inside the head of one that was performing it. So serious they were, and yet they were but infants compared to the rituals the Old Gods had performed. Yet this one, she had such thoughts that He had not heard from a Warden, thoughts beyond them, beyond the thing they most feared . . . The Blight. In this girl's head was a burning hatred for another of her kind, an older human man that she thought of with so much frequency that often she did not open her mind to the visions shared between the Darkspawn and the Wardens. So obsessed with killing this man, with making him suffer for daring to kill her family, was she. Urthemiel understood such thoughts, He understood them better than anyone.

Perhaps that was why He had not noticed this young human before, and looking back Morgreth thinks that must be it. Then as the blood in her veins and that of the blonde haired one that walked with her, began to fester in its potency, Urthemiel saw more, heard more, and in a fit of boredom looked in on them.

Revels of some kind, both of these juvenile Wardens had been partaking in. Celebration of . . . _a victory_? Yes. Against . . . _a demon infecting an even younger human, a boy with the magical talent_? Yes. He peered closer, consciousness hovering at the edges of the male Warden's mind, seeing with _his_ eyes, hearing with _his_ ears, but unable to do more than that.

The mind Morgreth relaxed into was rife with growing affection for a very comely copper haired female that sat beside him at the table, smiling into a stoneware wine goblet. He had no desire to look further, mortal affection meant nothing to Him. Instead the Old God listened to the music, raucous sounds of peasant folk drums and happy carousing, bawdy human jokes and friendly village women on drunken men's laps. A typical scene of the simple minded reveling of mortality.

"Dance! Dance! Dance!" A cheering began, and the Warden's head turned to look at his tainted blood kindred, the other Warden, as she climbed on top of an emptied table, villagers laughing around her.

"I promised you all a display of one of the old Avaar dances, did I not?"

"Aye!" A rousing cheer, and the woman smiled about the room, and Urthemiel peered with the male Warden's eyes.

A tall one for her kind, long dark red hair, loose and flowing like a river of blood, and when she turned the Old God caught sight of silver eyes. He bit back on a sound of surprise at just how much this woman looked like the hateful Maker's bride, that whore, Andraste. They could have been cast from the same mould, and yet, this one was far different beneath her skin, a _dark _Andraste where the real one had been full of the Maker's light. Another snort from Urthemiel where His physical body lay, deep beneath the earth. The male Warden shifted, rubbing at his temples as if he sensed something odd, and Morgreth quieted His own reaction accordingly, to remain unnoticed.

As she moved and danced on the table, laughing with too much wine and high on their victory, Urthemiel watched, entranced by her fluidity, by the passion she displayed simply with a movement of her hips and those long limbs. She would have made a wonderful bride during Urthemiel's previous life, but such was lost to Him . . . and yet, He began to think about how her blood might have been changed by the ritual she partook in. Old thoughts, old hopes and imaginings were rekindled their in and the Old God smiled inside the Warden's consciousness.

She was breathless as she finally sat down, giggling to herself, and Morgreth didn't have enough energy to stay for much longer, already He could feel his thoughts being pulled back into the archdemon shell that was his home now. Yet He yearned to stay, just a little longer, He told himself.

They were indeed silver eyes she possessed, eerily bright and sharp, as she looked at the male Warden, grinning. "And you thought I'd break an ankle or two."

"Well, Gwyneth, I think you're lucky you didn't." The man's voice reverberated into his own chest and sounded muffled to Morgreth because of it, but He could still hear him.

Her name was a song on His tainted heart, the whisper of something once thought dead, this beautiful human with the blood of the darkspawn and a nasty little mind filled with angry thoughts, and yet a joyful sense of revelry whenever she _did_ succeed. Urthemiel let his essence leave that mortal scene, sinking back down beneath the earth where He would slumber until His children were ready to move again. But He didn't mind as He thought back on her . . . _His_ Gwyneth.


	2. Broodmother Lullaby

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_ If Urthemiel's utmost desires are to sire more of his own kind (more than just the darkspawn that share his blood, though he also calls them his 'children') and stick it to the Maker, I wondered how that might translate into how the darkspawn behave, and thus, we have another drabble. First one here, I'm playing around with first person perspective, which was a bit different, but fun! :D_

_Then I was struck with another idea after replaying through the game again, this time trying to stick very judiciously to Gwyneth's character as it was born in the main novel these shorts were spawned from. When the peeps get ambushed in camp, I had a wonder about that too, and now . . . two drabbles for the price of one! Oh, wait never mind, they're all free anyway. ;p_

_Hinting at something with Flemeth here for certain, an idea that I had playing DA2, and somehow metastasized until I thought it made perfect sense. :p It is by no means canon, in fact canon suggests something else, it is merely something I've put into the Fate and Forbearance-verse._

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><p><strong>Broodmother Lullaby<strong>

**I **sleep, chest rumbling beneath the depths of Thedas, the huge scaled cavity that it has become, the hateful usurper _god's_ idea of an appropriate prison for my vanity. I sleep, and I dream deity dreams of fire and retribution, of my children and their desire to act upon all my wishes. It is the desire of any species, from the lowest of mortals to the highest of gods, to continue their line, to have heirs . . . _so why was I denied this_? The greatest beings to ever grace the ether of this coil of life, and we were _all_ denied, then left to rot and go mad in the imprisonment of flesh, scales and tainted blood.

There is a call in my mind, and I want to shout outward, but my shouting sends my worshiping children to cringe and scatter, poisoned mutated minds no longer able to understand the calls of their god. Instead, I sing, I croon, calling to Uvolla, my sister, but Lusacan ceased to answer me long before the fall of the Golden City. I want to try again, even inside these vessels, maybe we could attempt to create progeny together again . . . but no, it is of no use.

The poor souls that worshiped me, the ones the black fly mortals named darkspawn, they don't understand, but they try to. Women are taken when they feast, taken and shaped to the only kind of mother my beloved children will ever have, so that more of them may be created and I revel in it. '_Father! Father! Father_! _Do you see what we have done for you, Father? Will you sing for us again_?' All of them try to speak, though it is barely discernible amidst the growling. They reach out to place their scabbed and rough hands against my scales, sighing into my singing, their lullaby. The hideous appearance of them no longer bothers me, as the God of Beauty, I know that it should, and yet . . . they make an army for me, for the vengeance that belongs to all of us, and they do all that they can to please me and see to my needs.

In time, these women are made into darkspawn and they too hear my singing, it is what calms them when they labor in their new role. This is not perfection, but it is creation, and it is our driving force.

* * *

><p><strong>A 'Friendly' Test<strong>

**W**hile she's sleeping, He watches, as much as He can. She breathes in, He breathes out. Her dreams draw Him in, but she can't understand what He says, not yet, but He can be patient. Urthemiel has waited eons for this opportunity . . . He can wait a bit longer.

Deep beneath the crust of the world, the great dragon rests a wearied head, darkspawn murmuring around Him, some even sleeping against His large body, waiting for the next lullaby. The emissaries of Morgreth Urthemiel's will awaken, their garbled tongue calling to the others, and above their heads, there is a small band of darkspawn that listen. One tall shriek lifts its snout to the moon and howls, not so unlike a werewolf, ravaged skin stretched taut over unnaturally long talons.

"_Go, my children, I wish to see what these Grey Wardens are capable of when they are surprised, I yearn to know how quick a mind my future bride possesses_." He tells them. They don't understand all His words, but they do as they are bid.

His intended is resting inside the uncomfortable confines of a hastily assembled tent, turning on her side in a new bedroll. The Warden yearns for a soft bed and fluffy pillows, and Urthemiel wishes He could smile at that, but the only smiles He has are in His head, the dragon's snout He possesses is incapable of such an expression. She is a silly human thing, with silly human dreams, but He has placed His new hopes on her and cannot help but try to find her endearing, even if the quirks of her mortality are more scornfully amusing instead.

"_Gwyneth . . . wake up, my sweet." _Urthemiel croons to her as He croons to His dark children, and in her sleeping mind she seems to hear Him. He repeats her name again, like a caress and the Warden sits upright in her bedroll, bleary eyes coming into focus.

He moves on to the other Warden. '_Alistair_' a figment of a memory tells Him, as He goes inside the male's own consciousness. He rouses quicker than his female companion and it is something Urthemiel will remember for later. _"You must wake now, I've sent you something." _

He doesn't want them massacred in their sleep, and though the old god is aware that His intended and the blonde male are sensitive to His children, Urthemiel will not take a gamble with their survival. Least of all _hers_, she needs to make it to Him while He plans a means of escape from His shell. It will be a test of their abilities and how quickly they can react, nothing more and nothing less. Some of His children will need to be sacrificed, but it is a small price to pay, with the broodmothers making more every day.

There is a strange smell, and Urthemiel sniffs with His own snout, though He knows it is a fragrance He catches from the human, Gwyneth. She isn't even half aware of Him inside her mind, getting dressed and crawling sleepily from her tent.

"Alistair, did you . . .?" She begins, looking around the camp and listening intently to the sounds of the woods around them. "I thought I heard, _felt_, the archdemon talking to me."

"Mostly I heard a lot of growling, but I had the same . . . wait! What was that?" His eyes peer out into the darkness, hand already at the handle of a competent long sword.

As he scouts the perimeter of their camp, Urthemiel settles into His Gwyneth's mind as she moves closer to the wild mage they have with them. She is the source of the oddly familiar stench and as Gwyneth stands beside her, He presses His urge to smell the woman onto his oblivious host. She does so, not sure why, and the deity is pleased by how easy her over tired consciousness makes things. It is something else He will have to remember for future use.

"What are you doing?" The witch arched a thin black brow at Gwyneth.

"Sorry, Morrigan, I was . . . something smelled strange." The Warden apologized, though she seemed confused as to what her reasoning was anyway.

"And you thought it was _me_? Pfah! More likely it was that rancid dog of yours." Morrigan groused.

Gwyneth was quick to defend her canine companion. Though she wasn't as nasty as she had been towards others. There was an affection for the mageling.

Urthemiel had no use for the pettiness of humans, and instead waited for His dark children to arrive. But Gwyneth had been near enough for Morgreth to recognize the smell . . .'_Uvolla_!' The witch smelled of _His_ kind, of His sister in fact, a _most_ curious thing.

Then He watched as shrieking dark ones burst from the trees, and He found Himself wishing to smile once again. The Wardens were quicker, more so than He had imagined, and that would serve well when the time came.


End file.
